


written promptly

by sirnando



Series: stringing words together [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, i can add tags as i go but it's just a jumble, just short silly things, that are mixed with both canon and au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:42:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirnando/pseuds/sirnando
Summary: It’s the spring. Tommy sits on the edge of his desk in Arrow House, as Alfie lingers nearby. They are negotiating the terms of their next partnership, even though any practical uses they had for one another have dried up long ago.We have a deal? Alfie’s voice echoes through the room. Yes, they have a deal.-------------This is simply a collection of the tiny things I've written either out of thin air or based on word prompts from Tumblr. It's the second "part" in the series, since this whole thing has gotten quite long
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: stringing words together [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733176
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	1. arson

**Author's Note:**

> just like in the first part, chapter titles are the words which inspired the drabble xx

It’s the spring. Tommy sits on the edge of his desk in Arrow House, as Alfie lingers nearby. They are negotiating the terms of their next partnership, even though any practical uses they had for one another have dried up long ago.

_We have a deal?_ Alfie’s voice echoes through the room. Yes, they have a deal.

Tommy reaches for a cigarette, and when he turns back he finds Alfie has stepped closer. There’s a delicate strand hanging between them, formed a bit ago. It’s been left unacknowledged, but Tommy supposes it’s the reason they’ve both been reluctant about taking separate paths. He swallows.

Alfie takes the lighter from off of the desk, holds the flame up to the end of Tommy’s cigarette. A spark lands onto the strand. And when the smoke clears he’s leaned in, closer still—the tip of his cane nudging Tommy’s knees further apart.

Tommy feels it grow.

The fire—the one Alfie has lit deep inside Tommy’s belly, heat curling itself around his thighs. It’s an attempt at murder. Each inhale thins the air of oxygen, forcing his breaths shallower.

It’s melted a desire out of Tommy, he can feel it leaking from his eyes, streaking his cheeks. He raises an arm to rub them away with the heel of his hand, but Alfie intercepts the motion.

He places Tommy’s fingers to his lips, wraps his mouth around the index, and pulls it out slowly—with a soft _plop_ at the end.

The blaze has climbed higher now, spread further, flames toying with the seams of Tommy’s skin. But they remain contained—Alfie knows how to tame them. The work of a skilled arsonist. He lets Tommy’s hand drop back down, lie limp in his lap.

“This wasn’t in the contract.” he says it breathlessly, unconvincingly, but Tommy excuses the weakness on account of being seared from within.

“Amendments can always be made, yeah?” Alfie rubs a thumb across Tommy’s brow, down the length of his jaw, pulls away.

The fire coughs up one final time, and collapses into a pile of ashes.

-

Tommy dreams vividly that night—bathed in golden flames.


	2. caim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> caim (scottish, n.) - an invisible circle of protection, drawn around the body with the hand, that reminds you that you are safe and loved, even in the darkest times

Tommy grows a beard.

It starts off as a challenge, when John calls Arthur a ‘fucking fake’ who can only manage to grow hair above his top lip. “Juss—think about it, Thomas,” he’s tipsy, a bit of his drink sloshing onto his shirt, “have you ever seen the bastard grow it anywhere else? I saw it all inside the Russians’ house—he’s like a fucking mole rat, he is.” It’s insulting, to say the least, and Tommy is the one forced to step in between them. So he proposes this option to settle the matter. The competition will last a month, himself included.

-

To put it quite simply, Alfie fucking hates it.

It’s nasty. Unnatural. He refuses to touch it altogether. Their kissing is reduced to a few seconds before he grumbles and pulls away to rub ridiculous amounts of oil onto his lips. And it’s fucking bold behavior coming from him, considering the unkept state he exists in—constantly leaving burns on the insides of Tommy’s thighs, across his cheeks, his other cheeks—but torturing Alfie is far more entertaining than engaging in a war of complaints.

So Tommy milks it—runs his hands through the beard constantly, allowing any stray hairs to fall visibly onto the floor. He leaves bits of food in it purposely and pulls hair out of his mouth dramatically, ensuring Alfie is in full view of the action. He succeeds in getting him to gag twice, the rest are frustrated grunts.

The thing with Alfie is that he is _old and afflicted_ until it comes to dodging Tommy’s touches. Agility becomes his main strength then—weaving through chairs and ducking beneath an outstreched neck. The only time he is vulnerable is at night, when sleep overpowers his reflexes. And Tommy—being an enemy to sleep—capitalizes on the opportunity.

Having to wait for the bear to wake is quite boring, Tommy will admit, but the final outcome is rewarding. He curls up against Alfie, his beard pressed into any bit of exposed skin he can find—forehead, bicep, chest—and he rubs until Alfie’s elbow meets his nose or he’s being shoved off the bed entirely. He’s landed on the floor around 4 times now, lip cut or drops of blood trickling from his nose, laughing hysterically in the darkness as Alfie spews profanities.

-

Alfie takes all of the pillows and blankets in their bed on the 15th night of this nonsense, piles them into a wall down the middle of the mattress. He waits for Tommy to come into the room before drawing a protective ring with a finger around his own body, then points to Tommy menacingly. “That’s your last warning, mate—stay the fuck out.” Tommy shrugs and nods. It’s a fair reaction.

But he tests the boundary regardless and throws a hand over the wall. Waits until Alfie shifts to press his body against the skin.

 _Good._ The love is still there.

-

Tommy wins the competition.

It turns out John was right—Arthur is only capable of growing hair above his top lip. By the end of the month the mustache sags down the sides of his mouth, but the rest of the face remains hairless.

But John shuts up, because John, as it turns out, is even less successful than Arthur. His final result is patches of fuzz—barely visible because of the blondeness, so it looks like there is nothing at all. It’s embarrassing. Insulting. Shameful. So they refuse to discuss it and Tommy is left without any praise.

He tells Alfie the story and expects no congratulations in return, but Alfie surprises him. Because when he turns to leave for the bathroom, prepared to shave the mess off, Alfie clears his throat. “I suppose,” his eyes dart around the room, knuckles crack. “I suppose you can just leave it for a few more days.”

 _Of course,_ Tommy thinks, but only smiles. Of course he wants it to last a few more days. Tommy’s beard is an extension of Alfie’s ego now—a reminder that Alfie only fucks winners.


	3. insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> modern au!!

Tommy fixated on hobbies very easily. **  
**

It didn’t take a lot for him to commit his time and money towards an activity like, crocheting, for example. He would stock up on supplies, print out pages of instructions and designs, watch Youtube tutorial after Youtube tutorial, start on his own creation and then—stop.

Tommy called this behavior ‘coping’—a way to keep his hands busy and his mind focused on something other than the impending doom—and that was fine. That was great.

But the coping never lasted very long.

-

It wasn’t necessarily a surprise to Alfie—he had his suspicions even before they started officially dating. He’d noticed on multiple occasions that Tommy would try to hide his multi-colored fingerprints and tuck pleated friendship bracelets under his sleeves, but the true nature of the behavior became apparent once he finally visited Tommy’s home.

There were many things, to put it gently. 

Soap-making kits were scattered around the rooms, canvases of finger paintings stuck into crevices, scrapbooking stickers caught in between the couch cushions, and a variety of chia pets lining the windowsills. A particularly grim looking cat stood in the middle among them, dried sprouts hanging off its sides, and its ceramic eyes peering holes into Alfie’s shirt. He shuddered.

“Who’re you playing with, Tom?” he gestured towards the tennis rackets and earned himself a growl. It was a reasonable question to ask—anyone but Tommy Shelby, that is, because Alfie knew well he was playing alone. Bought them on a whim, too prideful to ask anyone to join now, so he slammed balls against the walls. The holes still adorned the plaster in the basement.

-

It was not enough to scare Alfie away, though. Alfie was a strong man—he could stomach a few stares from a fake, demonic cat and some stickers on his pant legs. 

The truth was, Tommy seemed to enjoy the process of getting a new hobby more than actually investing himself into it. He scoured magazines for ideas, bookmarked websites and tracked his delivery statuses religiously. But it was the TV that proved to be the most dangerous.

Alfie learned that Tommy Shelby loved bad advertisements. Every single time an infomercial popped up on the screen, showing off some new, poorly-made product, Tommy would be writing down the phone number onto his hand or dialing it immediately. 

He turned to Alfie one time, hand already hovering above the receiver in the middle of a commercial announcing a new colored pencil assortment which came with a _free electric sharpener if you called within the next 15 minutes!_ “I’m not insane, you know.” 

No, but he was getting there.

-

This month Tommy was coping with candles—he’d seen a make-it-yourself kit on sale from the original $200.

It was only wax, wicks and some essential oils, without the correct containers. Alfie had warned that it wasn’t even a good fucking deal—he anticipated the purchase before it occurred—but for a reasonable man, Tommy was particularly vulnerable to the toothy smiles of men on TV telling him it’d be the greatest buy of his life. 

“Tommy, the man on the screen, right, he does not come with the kit. Mate, please tell me you know that?” The bruise on Alfie’s upper arm had only just begun to fade. 

Their kitchen table was trashed three days later— _their_ because Alfie may as well have been living there now, though both of them were too nervous to make any official suggestions. 

Alfie stayed away, ate his breakfast on the counter or couch. It was ok, the hobby would only last a few days anyway and he could clean the wax drips on the floor then. 

On the second day of creation, Tommy lit a half made candle and held the flame up to Alfie’s nose. “It’s lavender.” He’d never actually shown Alfie anything he’d made—out of embarrassment, and because there never was much to show off—but the scent of candles was meant to be shared.

It didn’t smell like anything at all. The bits of dried lavender that he’d thrown in had caught on fire, masking all other aromas. Yet Tommy was looking at him so innocently, so expectantly, that Alfie couldn’t bring himself to joke. He inhaled deeply and said, “Oh yeah Tommy, am I sensing a bit of honey in there too?” It was all smoke, but he’d seen the scent lying on the table beside the dried bits. 

Tommy raised his eyebrows, a small smile tickling the corner of his lips. “Uh—yeah. Yeah there’s honey in there.” And that was the perfect amount of encouragement.

-

Candle-making lasted a week. Then a month, a month and a half, two. They were approaching month 3 and Tommy still sat hunched over the table, fingers waxy and smelling of mint or eucalyptus or lemons. 

He didn’t consider himself an expert by any means. It was curious, actually, because this was one of the hardest hobbies he’d taken on and even after he’d surpassed his record of focusing on a single task, Tommy was quite sure the candles still didn’t smell at all.

But Alfie—Alfie seemed to love them. He was always guessing the right smell, marveling at the work—even bought Tommy some dyes to add color to the candles now decorating their house. And Tommy was in no rush to point out his own flaws in the creation process, so this hobby turned into a _real_ hobby, as opposed to some 3 day fixation.

Tommy coped and Alfie basked in hundreds of unscented-scented candles. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @hardytcm <3


End file.
